


That's What Love Means

by queerlyobscure (softestpunk)



Series: An Early Acquaintance [6]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Friends to Lovers, Friendship, M/M, Male Friendship, Romantic Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-21
Updated: 2010-08-21
Packaged: 2017-10-11 04:50:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/108592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/softestpunk/pseuds/queerlyobscure
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After their first major fight, Victor does something stupid, and Holmes fears the worst.</p>
            </blockquote>





	That's What Love Means

**Author's Note:**

> I told you I'd fix it, guys! ::hugs:: to [](http://beeinmybonnet.livejournal.com/profile)[**beeinmybonnet**](http://beeinmybonnet.livejournal.com/) , who coddles Victor when I'm busy hurting the poor lad.

Holmes didn't dare go near Victor's rooms until the next day, while a lecture he was supposed to be attending was on. He was greeted enthusiastically by Cerberus, and after being briefly stung by Victor's last words to him ("_...you don't even like my dog..._"), sat down on the settee and allowed the dog to curl up with him. He would wait for Victor to return, and he would apologise, and promise never to even _think_ about sex again, and everything would be all right.

The flaw in Holmes' plan only became clear to him at seven o'clock that night, when Victor still hadn't returned. He took the poor dog, who had been crying at the door, out for a walk, and instead of heading back to Victor's rooms, simply went to his own. He allowed himself to try to sleep on the settee, and was subjected to the strange sensation that the dog sympathised with him. Or that Victor had spoiled it rather more than he'd originally thought, and it was just used to sleeping on top of someone else. Holmes didn't mind terribly.

It was about two o'clock the next morning, only scant hours after Holmes had finally settled his mind enough to actually sleep, that a commotion in the hall woke Cerberus, who in turn woke his temporary master. Holmes stumbled to the door, dreading what he might find on the other side even while he was anticipating a reunion with his friend. Holmes opened the door to a dishevelled Victor, who fell inside more than stepped. Even without this evidence, it was fairly clear from the smell that Victor was more than a little intoxicated. Holmes steadfastly ignored any other evidence in favour of steadying his friend, who was grinning disconcertingly.

"Hello, Holmes," Victor beamed, and then collapsed on the settee, "I don't suppose you'd get me a glass of water?"

There was something odd in Victor's tone, aside from an apparent lapse in his steadfast refusal to call his friend by his surname. Holmes nodded dumbly and went to fulfil Victor's request. When he returned, Victor was standing in the middle of the room, still wearing the disconcerting smile, and nothing else at all. Holmes stared.

"Umm, Victor?"

Victor took a few steps forward, removed the glass gently from Holmes' hand, drank a sip and then set it on a convenient pile of books. He kept smiling in the same manner, and took a gentle hold of Holmes' shoulders, guiding him to sit on the settee, and finally straddling his lap. Holmes swallowed, and looked up nervously.

"Victor, what are you doing?"

Victor shifted, and leaned in to whisper in Holmes' ear. "I'm giving you what you wanted. Why shouldn't I do it for you, after all? You have been kind to me."

This close, it was very difficult to ignore the fact that Victor smelled of someone else. "I don't want it. Not like this."

"I'll be gentle with you. I know it's your first time." He kissed down Holmes' neck softly.

"Victor, I said _no_. Please don't make me physically stop you."

Victor sat up suddenly, an exaggerated pout making him look ridiculous. "Am I not pretty enough for you?"

Holmes opened his mouth to answer that that wasn't even related to the point, but paused at what he thought was _actual_ insecurity, rather than an act. "Victor, I think you are very... pretty. I also think you are very drunk. And," Holmes paused and swallowed, "you've already been with someone else today. I don't think I can deal with that just now."

Victor nodded and climbed off Holmes' lap. "I didn't- _oh_," he groaned and bent forward, "I think I'm going to be sick."

Holmes jumped off the settee to grab his washbasin, and managed to drop it on the floor in front of Victor only a handful of seconds before it was necessary. Holmes wrinkled his nose, and listened as Victor wretched pathetically over the basin. After a few long moments, his residual shock and anger faded, and he found himself rubbing his friend's back gently and cooing nonsense, as he remembered his mother doing for him when he was a boy.

Eventually, Victor sat back, with a fine sheen of sweat covering his forehead, looking generally pathetic and tired. "I have never been more sorry in my life." He whispered, eyes closed. Holmes smiled wryly.

"You'll be all right in the morning." Holmes got up to fetch the glass of water from earlier.

A hollow chuckle erupted from the arm of the settee, where Victor had slowly fallen so that his head was resting on it. "Somehow, I doubt it."

"Drink." Holmes held out the glass, and moved away again while Victor gulped it down. "Small sips, or you'll be sick again." He called from somewhere that seemed, to Victor at least, impossibly far away.

Victor set the glass back down, now nearly empty, and was greatly surprised by a cool, damp pressure on the side of his head. It turned out to be a wet rag, and Holmes was washing him down with it.

"Do tell me if this gets to be too much." Holmes stated with an efficiency that Victor didn't particularly like. But then he supposed that this was largely his fault. Well, entirely. He lay curled up in silence while his former best friend (lover? Had they been lovers?) cooled and soothed, and realised slowly quite how bad his mistake had been. A quiet whimper broke free of it's own accord, and the gentle pressure stopped. Victor sighed heavily.

"Thank you. I don't deserve your kindness at all."

"Perhaps not. But unfortunately for me, I'm still in love with you."

Victor could feel an even, consistent push against his shoulder, and wondered what it was for the few moments it took for Holmes to haul him up. "Are you throwing me out?" He whispered miserably.

"No, Victor. I'm taking you to bed, where you can sleep this off." The room swayed for a few moments, and then Victor was being set down on a soft bed. "I assume you'll excuse me if I change my clothes? I must have a nightshirt somewhere."

"Don't bother on my account," Victor began sleepily, "it's not as though I'm not _used_ to having other naked bodies pressed up against me. At least I genuinely _like_ you."

Holmes considered that for a moment, and then continued to look for a nightshirt. He changed into it quickly, and then laid down behind Victor on the bed. If he held the now-sleeping, pliable body a little too possessively, no-one would ever need to know.

~oOo~

Victor woke in the early hours of the morning to a throbbing headache, and what felt like steel bands wrapped over his chest and stomach. The headache he could account for without opening his eyes, but he'd never fallen asleep tied down before. Odd.

As he woke up a little more, he realised that the bands were arms, and that there was a warm if slightly bony body behind him. He tried to recall who it belonged to, but the last person he could remember at the moment was Evans, and he couldn't normally be described as 'bony', nor was he likely to be cuddling him after last night.

A wet lick to the face woke him further, and he opened his eyes to see Cerberus staring back. Which did not at all explain the person with him, nor the fact that his dog was in a room which was clearly not his own. Or, indeed, why _he_ was naked, yet the person he was sharing with seemed to be dressed for bed.

"Awake, I see."

Victor tensed. He recognised that voice, but he couldn't quite remember yet how he'd gotten from embarrassing himself in front of Evans to being cuddled in what must be Sherlock's bed. His stomach turned over at the thought of the only thing he could think of that would warrant affectionate treatment of this sort. Well, that was that, then. He'd been right, though; Sherlock was always going to be considerate. It could certainly be far worse.

"I've left the basin on the floor for you, if you're going to be sick again." The arms around him loosened, enough that he could easily move away without doing either of them any harm.

That made significantly less sense with Victor's working theory. He shut his eyes tightly and focused on remembering the events that had gotten him here. Stripping off in the sitting room. Holmes' confusion. Disgust. And then... he remembered being ill, and Holmes soothing him, cooling him down. Washing him. Taking care of him, like... like he...

"Oh God." Victor rushed to kneel on the side of the bed and wretched painfully. Given that this was the third day on which he hadn't eaten anything, he wasn't particularly surprised when all he ended up doing was spitting bile. What _did_ surprise him was the cool, gentle hand stroking along his spine. He was even a little shocked by a wet lick to the hand clutching the side of the mattress, but looked down to see Cerberus staring up at him in what might even be described as concern. Or as concerned as a dog can be after the twentieth time it sees something.

Holmes was stroking his hair. Perhaps all hope wasn't lost, Victor thought as he curled back onto the bed. "Sherlock, I have to tell you something."

"I know, Victor. I already know," came the sad reply, even as gentle fingers carded through his hair, "I understand."

"No, no, that's the point. You _don't_ understand. I know what you think, but for once you've got it wrong. I didn't sleep with anyone else."

The fingers stilled. "Please don't lie to me. You _know_ what I can see. I'm willing to forgive you, but _please_, don't try to deceive me."

"I don't deny that it was my _intention_ to sleep with Evans. I was hurt and angry and he came along at the right moment. But conscious intentions apparently don't apply all over. When it got down to it, I... couldn't." Victor flushed bright red with embarrassment.

Holmes frowned. "What do you mean, 'couldn't'. You had his scent all over you."

"Yes, well," Victor coughed to clear his throat, "we got to the naked part, and, umm. Not much further, since I remained, well. I never managed to reach the appropriate state of arousal."

Still confused, Holmes shifted so he could look at his friend. "When you say you didn't manage the 'appropriate state of arousal', you mean...?"

"I didn't... _harden_."

"Oh," Holmes adopted a grave expression, "perhaps you've worn it out?" He stated seriously.

Victor looked horrified. "You can't! Can you?"

"Has it ever happened before?" Holmes asked with concern.

"No... Oh God. That's what's happened, isn't it? It's why you're not supposed to start until you get married, and then people stop when they're older. You're only allotted a certain number in your life," Victor looked up at his friend, clearly on the verge of tears. "I'm so sorry, Sherlock. I really _did_ want to, you must believe me."

"I believe you, Victor," Holmes stated with utmost sincerity, paused a few moments, and then broke into a grin, "you are terribly gullible, though."

Holmes thought that the combined look of outrage and joy on Victor's face was probably worth being tackled roughly off the bed and onto the floor, even if he did hit his head. "_Why_ would you frighten me like that? I thought my life was over!"

Raising an eyebrow briefly at the implication, Holmes stilled and looked at Victor seriously. "You frightened me. I thought _my_ life was over, because I'd upset you enough to lose you."

"Oh, Sherlock," Victor's eyes shone with tears, "I'd kiss you but I'm sure my breath is revolting at the moment. It wasn't your fault; I know now that you were offering me something, not trying to take something from me," he paused for a moment, and then continued unsurely, "would you mind terribly if we waited until the break? It's just... we'd be alone, and there's a larger bed and I could really treat you the way I want to."

Holmes swallowed, and nodded. "I'd like that very much. And we never have to if you're not comfortable with it. Being loved is more than enough for me." He smiled honestly.

"You are loved. I promise you, you are loved, Sherlock Holmes."

"And you, Victor Trevor, are forgiven."


End file.
